


the color of peaches

by plutoexists



Category: ATEEZ (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Boys in Skirts, Cigarettes, Class President Park Seonghwa, Fist Fights, Homophobic Language, I wrote this instead of studying, M/M, Original Character(s), not beta read we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-14 11:28:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29541666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plutoexists/pseuds/plutoexists
Summary: Hongjoong wears a skirt to school and deals with the consequences.
Relationships: Kim Hongjoong/Park Seonghwa
Kudos: 44





	the color of peaches

Hongjoong, for all the years he has been trying to fit in and please everyone around him, finds that, essentially, everything has been for naught. Every time he fought against himself to not dye his hair colors more vibrant than the spring flowers growing on the side of the road, when he opted for discreet earrings instead of piercing both his ears in a row, cutting his hair curly instead of letting it out into the mullet he has been day-dreaming about for a few months already— he regrets it now. It’s not like he likes his classmates like him that much, anyway (it’s not like they _actually_ like him back, either), but Hongjoong was a bit of a coward when it came to the masses.

Because the masses are always right, always following the right stream and the correct path. 

Except that they aren’t, and Hongjoong has finally accepted that the nagging voice in the back of his mind that is always telling him he is different, and continues doing so, is right and has always been so. It hadn't come to him like an epiphany or a messaging angel descending from heaven, but it certainly had felt like a fresh breath of air, a heavy rock off his chest. 

So he wears a skirt to school that day. It’s nothing groundbreaking, nothing like the way his heart thumps in his chest when he thinks about altering his appearance until he manages to look like _himself,_ but it’s a start, and a pretty one, at that. 

The skirt isn’t too short, it falls right to where his knees start and it’s loose enough that it swishes around his thighs when he walks and that the shorts he wears underneath go practically unnoticed. It’s not even part of the uniform, not even the girl uniform, with its pink and black plaid pattern and the thin white lines that follow it. As Hongjoong pulls it up his shaven legs that morning he realizes, with something akin to a laugh, that it’s a piece of clothing someone who participates in the pastel-goth aesthetic would wear. Still, it matches well with his white shirt and the black of jacket and shoes. 

When he goes downstairs for breakfast his father makes a show of pulling the newspaper he’s reading so close to his face his nose is practically buried in the paper, just to avoid looking at him. A string of stuttering words fall off his mother’s mouth, unable to formulate questions out of pure shock. Hongjoong kisses her goodbye after his last bite to the strawberry-jam toast he has for breakfast, and his mother holds his wrist like she’s worried about him going to school like that. When he looks into her eyes, even if it’s just for a split second, he sees tenderness and not disgust. So he softly squeezes her hand back before stepping out of the house. 

In the short 10 minutes that is the walk to school, more than 10 people stare weirdly at him and at least three shout slurs at him with a practiced ease that makes Hongjoong’s fingers twitch. He barks a ‘fuck you’ at them in return, with enough force that it makes grown adults flinch and open their ugly mouths like fish, ready to protest but actually speaking. It makes Hongjoong smile, dragging his tongue across his lips and shaking his head in both bliss and disbelief that such a petite teen such as him is _that_ intimidating. 

His classmates’ reactions don’t differ much from theirs. Weird stares, long glances and snickering and not-so-kind whispers behind covering hands. The two girls he talks to scurry down the hallway when they see him, eyes darting everywhere and, sure enough, hoping that nobody remembers that they are what ‘normal’ people consider ‘friends’. His male classmates are more shameless and laugh and point his way, making nasty remarks that Hongjoong finds more than unoriginal and therefore, boring. When he tells them this, they scoff and blush like children, ears tainted red. 

Again, boring. Still, his good mood isn’t affected and Hongjoong goes on about his day thoroughly enjoying how pretty his skirt is (even when five teachers tell him off, gets detention he will not be attending to any time soon and is threatened with the prospect of the headmaster calling his parents, which, after his uneventful morning at home, doesn’t worry him in the slightest). 

He eats his lunch alone on the school’s roof, sitting on his ass and sandwich on his lap as he scrolls through his phone, looking up clothing stores to buy maybe another skirt since his first had been such a great purchase. He tugs his jacket closer to his body when a sudden cold gush of air ruffles hue dark hair and the idea of getting a mullet pops again in his head, so he searches for hairstyles he can go for, too. 

He tries not to giggle when he adds an autumn colored and dark blue hair dye to his online shopping cart. 

In class, he plugs his earphones in and listens to music while doodling unfinished poems and songs on his beat-up notebook, inspiration coming to him a little bit easier now that he is finally beginning to feel like Kim Hongjoong instead of ‘a classmate, he’s kinda quiet but nice, I guess’. The scraping of the pen against paper as he scratches words and writes new ones over them, the tapping of his foot on the floor, every time the music stops and he can hear himself breathe— everything seems more real, now. The way people look at him, completely genuine. Better than the tight smiles he despises so much. 

Barely two hours into the afternoon, the bell rings and school finishes. Hongjooong snaps his notebook close and throws it in his bag along with a discarded blue pen and ripped white sheets of paper that he never uses but he carries around anyway. A few boys intentionally bump into him as he leaves the classroom and he clicks his tongue, but other than that, he says nothing. At least he doesn’t until one rough push as he walks through the main entrance ends up with him against the wall, arm throbbing from where it had gotten stuck behind his back and the wall. 

“Hey!” He shouts, scrambling to his feet, “What the fuck, man?” It’s a bad habit, cussing, but it comes naturally to Hongjoong when he faces situations that grate on his nerves to the point where his hands tremble. 

Yunseo, because of course it is Yunseo with his dumb smirk and even dumber friends, makes haste in grabbing him by the collar of his shirt and thrusts him against the brick wall, making Hongjoon’s school bag slide off his shoulders as he cackles like it’s the funniest thing in the world. “Why are you shouting? We just came to tell you how much we like your skirt.” 

“Fuck off.” Hongjoong grumbles. He pats invisible dust off the skirt and straightens it where it had been folded in the edges, making sure that it sits correctly on his waist after all that pushing around. Yunseo watches him with a grimace. 

“Whatever. Come on, let's go.”

Despite the lack of bystanders, Yunseo drags him behind the school where walls are darker and corners are sharper. Hongjoong only follows him because his pride won’t let him run away from the likes of him and the fact that Yunseo’s grip on his shirt is a bit too strong to fend off without ripping its buttons apart. Yunseo’s friends drag themselves behind him, kicking pebbles with the tip of their shoes and chuckling when they hit the back of Hongjoong’s legs. Hongjoong finds the action childish as he finds it extremely annoying, so he stops dead in his tracks and kicks one of his feet up in the air behind him, the sole of his shoe hitting flesh. 

The hit makes one of the lackeys scream. Soon enough, Hongjoong is hauled up by the other, nearly off the ground. “You—!” Jihu brings his face close to Hongjoong’s, so close he can see the red veins of Jihu’s popping eyes. 

Doyun stomps towards them, no doubt ready to pounce on Hongjoong, but Yunseo stops him, shouting: “Hey! What do you think all of you are doing, huh? Jihu, put him down.” He moves his hand as he talks, painting an invisible arrow.

“But—!”

“No, put him down. I know you all want to hit him, but you need to be patient, yeah? Then, it will be more fun.”

Back on stable footing, Hongjoong can’t help but laugh. It’s stifled, more like a snort than actual laughter. “I’m sorry but,” he clears his throat “you get off of this, don’t you?” 

Yunseo looks at him with furrowed eyebrows and the corners of his lips turned downwards, an expression proper of those who think are being disrespected. “What are you talking about, fag?” 

Hongjoong lets the comment slip and shrugs his shoulders. “You’re going to round me up and make me play with my little, pink skirt? I don’t know if it’s out of jealousy because I can dress however the fuck I want or you are just into some weird shit, but damn, your way of dealing with stuff sure is unoriginal.” 

Yunseo is tall. Taller than Hongjoong’s form and taller than the average. He hovers over him and blocks the sun in the process, casting a cold shadow over Hongjoong as his hands once again find themselves balling under Hongjoong’s collar and tugging upwards with enough force to leave him breathless. Hongjoong brings his own hands to Yunseo’s wrists out of pure reflexes in a fruitless attempt to loosen the grip on his neck. 

His chest is heaving, jaw tight, his face a mirror of Yunseo’s own. 

“You’re funny, aren’t you?” Yunseo scrunches his nose as he growls out his words, teeth bared like an animal. 

Hongjoong swallows thickly. “Fuck you.” He swings his leg forward, hitting Yunseo on the gut with his knee. 

There’s an ’ _oof_ ’ as Yunseo drops him to hold his stomach, short of air, and Hongjoong scrapes his knees on the concrete floor, hissing silently as Doyun kicks him down and the skin on the palm of his hands breaks. There’s cheering when Doyun tries to hit him in the head, and Hongjoong uses the opportunity to grab a hold of the bottom of his leg and throw Doyun to the ground next to him, landing on his back with a barely audible crack. A white and red pack of cigarettes slides out of Doyun’s pocket during his fall, and once Hongjoong stands he kicks it away, watching from the corner of his eye as it skids through the floor. 

His skirt twirls around him as Hongjoong throws a punch, fist closed around his fingers with the little street fighting knowledge he possesses from the time he had become hyper fixated on learning how to box. The ring he wears in his index finger connects directly with Yunseo’s cheek, and the force of the lunch pushes him back enough for him to trip and fall on his ass, holding his face with tears in his eyes. Hair falls over his eyes and Hongjoong’s doesn’t see Jihu until he’s too close. 

Jihu strikes him right under the collarbone. Hongjoong falls back a few steps, slightly hunching and covering his face with his forearms as Jihu wastes no time punching him again. He grabs Hongjoong by the back of jacket, thrusts his body towards him and shoots a bent leg upwards that manages to hit him right on the nose. 

“Fuck.” Hongjoong all but croaks, blinking away tears. He tastes metallic on his mouth, feels the hot drip of blood that streams from his nose to his chin. 

“You like that, huh?” Jihu snarls, holding his fits high. “I’m going to fuckin’ pummel you.” 

Hongjoong clicks his tongue, flicking his tongue through his teeth. He pushes air through his nose, watching as blood is shot to the ground and then cleans his face with the back of his hand. “Shut the fuck up.” He mumbles, and Jihu shouts at him to speak up. 

“I said,” He straightens himself, fingers twitching, “Shut the fuck up.” 

Fast on his feet, Hongjoong inches forward and jabs Jihu in the stomach. He doubles over just slightly, but enough for Hongjoong to reach out with an open hand and clench his fist around a handful of short hair. He pulls it from the nape of Jihu’s head downwards and thwacks him, twice, digging his elbow on Jihu’s back. Jihu clutches at him, laying a hold on his white shirt and ripping its buttons apart in an attempt to fight Hongjoong off him. 

“Get off me! Don’t touch me, you fag!” Jihu trashes around, but Hingjoong’s grip on him doesn’t falter. 

The white buttons bounce off the concrete as they land, the light sound suddenly loud in the silence that has fallen over them. They roll through the ground, some away from each other, some twirling in their lonesome, and one in particular falling over on its side right in front of a new pair of shoes, black and more shiny than anyone’s there. 

Park Seonghwa, the class president.

Hongjoong would scoff. 

Park Seonghwa and him weren’t friends. They barely talked, and every time a glance fell on the other it was accompanied by a not so friendly banter and a roll of eyes before completely ignoring each other’s existence. They never really agreed on anything, their opinions always differed. Hongjoong found Seonghwa to be a stuck-up goody-two-shoes and surely Seonghwa thought he was someone to be avoided like the plague. 

All in all, his presence wasn’t a pleasant surprise. 

“What are you doing?” Seonghwa asks, addressing everyone and no one. It makes Hongjoong loosen his grip on Jihu’s scalp. Seonghwa is standing completely still, feet close to each other, hands inside his pockets in an effortless elegance that only someone as tall and slender as him can achieve. 

It’s Yunseo the first one to stand from where he had fallen, cursing under his breath. Doyun follows suit hastily, glaring at Seonghwa in a way that makes it seem that he is going to pounce on him, too. Hongjoong watches how Doyun’s shoulders drop after Yunseo whispers something to him, and in his momentary distraction, Jihu breaks away from his grasp, pushing him away in the process. _Fuck you,_ he mouths, and Hongjoong offers him the finger. 

“Leaving, obviously.” Yunseo spits at the ground, “Bye-bye. Come on, guys, let’s go.” 

It’s awkward when Yunseo, Jihu and Doyun leave.

Seonghwa doesn’t move, doesn’t even shift, but still watches Hongjoong with a calculating gaze, like he is pondering his options now that he has stepped into something that doesn’t concern him, at least not directly. Hongjoong fidgets, adrenaline still pumping through his veins, knees weak and nose throbbing painfully. The scrapings on his hands and knees itch, but he scratches at his skirt instead. 

The metal of his ring feels hot against his skin. 

“What?” Hongjoong snaps, but Seonghwa barely blinks at his outburst.

“Is your school bag that one over there? I can get it for you.” 

Hongjoong looks at him like he’s out of his goddamn mind. “No.” He says, but Seonghwa turns on his heel and walks towards the bag anyway. It makes Hongjoong strangely anxious, and he ends up picking the discarded cigarette box off the floor just to keep himself busy and distracted from how fast his heart is beating. The paper of the box is peeling off in the corners, the bright red turning pink in some parts and the black ink of the cigarette logo is barely visible anymore. There’s merely three cigars left when Hongjoong opens it with his shaky hands, and he mindlessly realizes that that’s probably the reason why it’s so light. He opens and closes the paper box at least twice before picking a cigarette and letting it sit between two of his fingers.

He pockets the box in his jacket. 

“Do you want a lighter?”

Seonghwa is in front of him, closer than before, the hand he is holding Hongjoon’s bag with stretched out towards him.

It takes a few seconds for Hongjoong to notice all of this. When he does, however, he practically snatches the bag out of Seonghwa’s grasp, glaring at the taller boy with something akin to indignation. 

“So?” 

“So what?” 

Seonghwa pats at his pants, rummaging through his jacket and trousers until he finds what he is looking for. He holds the orange plastic between slender fingers, taps it twice as he looks at Hongjoong. “The lighter.” 

Hongjoong, for a couple of seconds, doesn’t know what Seonghwa is talking about, refuses to believe that the orange lighter he is holding is actually his. He blinks at the class president, brows furrowed and the corner of his lips turning downwards, utterly confused. Seeing his lack of response, Seonghwa closes the distance between them in a single step. 

“H-Hey!” Hongjoong moves back on his feet, suddenly alert, the distance between him and the brick wall considerably smaller than before. Seonghwa spares him a single glance before he is taking Hongjoong’s hands in his, a bit roughly. He circles his fingers around Hongjoong’s thin wrist and tugs it closer towards him. With a quick flick, he lights the cigarette Hongjoong is still holding onto. 

With his blood clogged nose, Hongjoong’s sense of smell is positively screwed, but the pungent scent of nicotine still makes him scrunch his nose ever so slightly. Seonghwa watches him silence as he hesitates in bringing the cigarette to his mouth, and Hongjoong has to wonder if Seonghwa had noticed that he had momentarily forgotten about the white stick, making him feel a tad embarrassed.

His gingerness is probably why he takes a long drag and ends up inhaling more smoke than he had intended to. It burns his throat and makes him cough, blood spurting out of his nose. He hears Seonghwa hiss when the blood stains part of his hand and sleeve, and would have apologised if it weren’t for his coughing fit. “Shit.” Hongjoong rasps instead, swallowing thickly. 

“First time smoking?” Seonghwa asks, his voice muffled somehow, and when Hongjoong looks up from where he has doubled over his stomach Seonghwa is holding a cigarette between his teeth, guarding it with cupped hands as he lights it. Despite his trying to remain unbothered, Hongjoong is sure that surprise is written all over his face when Seonghwa looks at him with quirked lips, the closest thing he can manage to a smirk. 

“Got a problem with that?” Hongjoong grumbles, bringing his cigarette to his lips again but still doubtful as to whether he should suck at it and risk another hacking cough or not. He glances at Seonghwa from underneath his dark bangs just in time to see him rolling his eyes. 

“Would it hurt you to be more polite?” Seonghwa mumbles the words out, but Hongjoong hears them clearly enough for him to gape at him, too dumbfounded (and maybe a _little_ offended) to even register him stepping towards him until he’s practically hovering over Hongjoong. “Let me.” Seonghwa lays his hand on top of the one Hongjoon’s is pinching the cigarette with and with more care than Hongjoong could have ever imagined when it came to him, he pushes it until the cigarette bumps against his mouth. 

“Inhale, but not too much or you’ll cough again.” He instructs, and Hongjoong slowly parts his lips, quivering ever so slightly. He can see the way Seonghwa watches him as he pushes the cigarette into his mouths, the way his eyes trace the curve of his neck as he breathes in the cigarette smoke. “Hold it,” he says, and Hongjooong does. “Good.”

Seonghwa brings his hand down along with Hongjoong’s, taps the ashes before letting go. “Now, take a deep breath and swallow the smoke. Blow out the rest of it.” 

This time, Hongjoong doesn’t cough as he lets the nicotine into his organism, and even though the scent and taste of the smoke is more bearable than before, it still makes him pull a face. It’s no wonder he hasn’t tried smoking before, it tastes like absolute _shit._

Which doesn’t explain how someone as refined as Seonghwa carries a cigarette box in his school jacket. 

Hongjoong rests against the wall as he exhales a puff of white smoke into the air, one knee bent at the middle and the whole of his shoe flat against the brick. It makes his skirt ride up his leg dangerously high, and Hongjoong pretends swears he sees Seonghwa attempting to look under the pink fabric just to check if he's wearing pants underneath, suddenly torn between feeling embarrassed or irritated. And because it’s him, Hongjoong opts for the latter and says: 

“Didn’t peg you for someone who smokes.” It’s followed by a sneer, his words bordering on accusatory and maybe even sarcastic, but the reaction he gets from Seonghwa is barely one so. Just a raise of eyebrows while he puffs out smoke like he was born to hold a cigarette between his fingers. 

“Didn’t peg you for someone who wears skirts to school.” Seonghwa retorts after a beat of silence and Hongjoong— Hingjoong is _surprised._ Eyes wide open, gaping like a damn fish again. He doesn’t even notice when a trail of cigarette ash falls on his shoe. 

“T-That’s…!”

“Judgemental?” Seonghwa’s brow is quirked upwards and he’s smiling like a cat that has caught a mouse in its trap, which also perfectly describes the way Hongjoong feels as he glares at Seonghwa, cheeks hotter than before. 

He ends up clicking his tongue and looking away, restlessly stubbing the butt of the cigarette against the wall until it’s completely put out and twisted enough that it looks more like a scrap of torn paper than a stick. Seonghwa tells him that that’s a waste of a cigarette, and Hongjoong answer is that he doesn’t smoke as he readjusts the strap of the school bag on his back.

“Are you leaving?” 

“What, want me to stay and chat?” Hongjoong snorts and shakes his head like what has just come out of his mouth is something so _unimaginable_ that it’s almost _funny_. 

Seonghwa just shrugs. “Why not? I mean, I just… kind of saved you.” 

As he says that, all that could have considered this situation a funny one leaves Hingjoong’s body and leaves him cold. He turns his head towards Seonghwa and snaps: “No, you weren’t supposed to be here, I didn’t even ask for help. You didn’t _save_ me and I don’t owe you anything, so stop acting like we’re buddies because we are _not_.” 

For the first time through all of the recent course of events, Seonghwa shows himself to be visibly startled at Hongjoong’s tone and his whole body tenses, Hongjoong sees the way he grips at the side of jacket with his free hand, trying, maybe, too hard not to fidget. It makes Hongjoong feel a pang of something akin to guilt in his chest, because despite everything, he’s always been a little too sensitive towards people’s feelings, so he scoffs at himself but turns away to leave anyway. 

“I didn’t mean it that way. Sorry.” Seonghwa says, voice low, after a long drag of his burning cigarette. 

Hongjoong rolls his eyes, again readjusting the school bag on his bag, pulling at its strap. “Sure seemed like it.” He murmurs, eyeing Seonghwa’s form for just a second before averting his eyes. 

He hears Seonghwa clicking his tongue, and when Hongjoong turns towards him in what he believes is a discreet way, he’s running a hand through his black hair, visibly distressed. “That’s why I apologised, okay? Do we have to argue every time we talk?” 

Hongjoong raises his eyebrows at that, fully turning towards Seonghwa, glowering. “Oh, are we arguing?”

“I mean— I guess— we are now!” Seonghwa moves his hands as he talks to accentuate his words, like he does when speaking in class and when he’s debating or defending his opinions and as usual, he pops a vein, bright green. Hongjoong tries not to state too much at it. 

“Then— I don’t understand. Why would you want to talk to me if all we ever do is argue?” 

Seonghwa stubs the butt of his cigarette against the wall in a similar fashion to what Hongjoong had done with him, presumably not caring anymore about finishing the stick before putting it out. He seems deep in thought. “I-I mean, not because I want to, obviously,” he begins, stripping over his own words, “but… okay, look. I want us to be friends. You seem cool.”

“Cool?” Hongjoong asks, head cocked to the side and taken aback by the sudden… confession? Compliment? He wasn’t quite sure— he never was sure with Park Seonghwa.

Seonghwa nods his head, somewhat eagerly. “Yes, cool.”

“Why, though?” Hongjoong asks in return, genuinely curious, barely a second after Seonghwa’s response. “Aren’t I, like, a bad influence? At least for you.” He gestures towards Seonghwa, his finger pointed and he swears he sees the class president put before a frown forms between his brows. 

“What is that supposed to mean?” Seonghwa retorts. 

Hongjoong shrugs in a dismissive yet tense manner, his squinted eyes assessing Seonghwa’s form critically. “We are arguing again.” He hums, noncommittal, and Seonghwa opens his mouth like he wants to deny what Hongjoong just pointed out, but he ends up sighing through his nose, neck craned and face turned towards the sky. He brings his arms upwards before letting them fall to his thighs again, the sound loud in the silence of a deserted school. 

“You’re right,” Seonghwa says at last, his tone tired. “You’re right. This was a bad idea. Well, I guess I’ll get going and, um, sorry for bothering. Bye.” 

Seonghwa brushes past him, head hanging slightly low, hands in his pockets, and for a staggering minute (or at least that is what it feels like), Hongjoong feels proud for winning an argument, no matter how petty it may seem, against Park Seonghwa. Then, it downs on him like a bucket of cold water that he was being uncharacteristically stupid and maybe characteristically difficult, and guilt floods his chest and squeezes until he feels his throat close up. 

_Kim Hongjoong you idiot—_

“Park! Wait!” Before his own brain can convince Hongjoong that everything he is about to do is actually a _horrible_ idea, he runs after Seonghwa and takes hold of his wrist rather harshly.

“What—”

“Wait, please.” Hongjoong’s takes a deep breath, the beating of his heart loud in his ears as he ponders about what to say next, Seonghwa poking at him both expectantly and slightly hopeful. “Maybe, uh, maybe we can sit together during lunch tomorrow.” 

Seonghwa and him aren’t friends, they argue more than they talk, they don’t greet each other in the morning when Hongjoong is usually slightly late, they don’t actually acknowledge each other out of class and their petty debates. But Seonghwa has friends to keep him company whereas Hongjoong doesn’t have someone to look forward to after classes end. It’s not because people don’t like him, it’s just making friends is difficult, Hongjoong himself is difficult, and keeping friendly ties with people he doesn’t actually trust is too tiresome. But, now, as he stands in front of someone who is actually putting some kind of effort into getting to know him despite all their differences (and those are _many),_ Hongjoong supposes it’s worth a try— _maybe,_ just maybe. 

(He hopes it is.) 

And it’s not like he can back down now, but he tries not to focus on that and instead thinks about the possibly positive outcome their little attempt at _civil_ conversation could lead to. 

“I-If you want to, of course.” Hongjoong adds meekly after Seonghwa doesn’t answer. 

“Tomorrow…” Seonghwa starts, face too impassive for Hongjoong to decipher what the taller boy is thinking, and Hongjoong’s heart leaps to his throat, mortified of a negative response. “There’s no class tomorrow. It’s the weekend.” 

Hongjoong _definitely doesn’t_ squeal at that, heat rising to his face and painting him as red as a grown tomato, eyes so wide it looks like they are about to jump out of their sockets. “T-Then…! Then…! Goodbye!” He ducks his head, turning over his body in an attempt to fucking _flee,_ but Seonghwa is quick to catch him by the wrist like Hongjoong had done. 

“This Monday, then? If it’s okay with you.” Seonghwa asks, all bright smiles and glittering eyes, nothing like Hongjoong’s first conception of him, nothing like the stern and elegant class president Seonghwa makes himself to be, and Hongjoong can’t help but to agree. 

”Sounds... Sounds good.” He says, gingerly for someone who had just beaten the fuck out of three kids. 

Even if with a bloody nose as the aftermath of wearing a skirt to school, Hongjoong thinks he should do it again. The genuineness of the act seems to be the reason he’s been approached with friendly intentions, after all.   
  
It makes Hongjoong wonder if Seonghwa is tired of pretending to be somebody he is not, too. If maybe Seonghwa was waiting for someone like Hongjoong to turn the school upside down so he too could start to change his life. _Never judge a book by its cover,_ his mother had told him once, and Hongjoong realises with embarrassment that that was what he had done with Seonghwa. 

Hongjoong smiles. “See you on Monday, then, Park.” 

  


  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This is literally just me saying oh I guess ill have to do it myself. Like everything i write, my style gets lazy as the story progresses and I’m sorry. Motivation is something that is hard for me to keep. But still, i hope you enjoyed this as much as i enjoyed coming up with it. Kudos are appreciated and if you will please leave a comment! I love it when you guys do, mwah!


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